


Start From Now

by Zoe Rayne (MontanaHarper)



Category: Profiler
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, M/M, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yuletide 2006
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-01
Updated: 2007-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:36:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Zoe%20Rayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Though no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending."<br/>—Carl Bard</p>
            </blockquote>





	Start From Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shetiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shetiger/gifts).



> Written for Yuletide 2006. Prompt: "I've always wanted to see John Grant/Bailey Malone comfort fic set sometime after Frances shot Bailey. UST is fine."

For an instant there was nothing but surprise—his own and the shocked expression on Frances's face—and then the pain blossomed white-hot in his chest and the floor swam up to meet him. Somewhere above his head he could hear her speaking, a panicked confusion of syllables that made no sense; he tried to suck in enough breath to calm her, to tell her that everything was going to be okay, that he knew she hadn't meant to do it, but the burning pain was overwhelming and then she was gone.

"Bailey? _Bailey_?" It was John's voice, far away and growing fainter as Bailey's own harsh, ragged breaths drowned it out.

He focused on those breaths, counting each labored inhalation, promising himself he could rest after the tenth, then extending it to the twentieth, and then again to the fiftieth. Somewhere around the fortieth breath he realized the fire was seeping away, tendrils of ice taking its place and leaving him shivering.

"Bailey." John's voice again—close this time, but strangely quiet and tinged with some emotion that Bailey couldn't identify. Warm hands pressed against him, turning him over and tugging him upright, their heat blazing in contrast to the chill that was making him feel heavy and unresponsive. "Stay with me, Bailey."

Finally safe, he relaxed into John's hold and let the darkness well up and over him.

~ * ~ * ~

John struggled with the dead weight of Bailey's unconscious body. "Fuck!" He adjusted his grip, trying to keep moving while feeling for a pulse. "Don't you fucking _dare_ die on me, Bailey Malone," he growled, voice breaking at the same moment that he felt the flutter under his fingertips.

He hefted Bailey up over one shoulder, not quite able to manage a true fireman's carry without taking time he didn't think Bailey could afford. The distance to the car was at least twice what he remembered, and he tried not to think about the pool of red that Bailey had been lying in, tried not to estimate how many pints or how much of Bailey's life it represented.

The drive to the hospital was a blur. He vaguely remembered putting the strobe light on the dash, but everything he did after that was on autopilot, at least until he pulled up in front of Piedmont's emergency entrance. There was a gurney waiting, and as they moved Bailey onto it, John pulled himself together enough to give the ER docs the pertinent details—nine-millimeter full-jacketed slug at close range—the words spilling out of him without thought.

Even as they were rushing Bailey inside, John couldn't seem to let go of him. One of the nurses gently deflected him away from the gurney and he had to suppress a moment of irrational anger; he took a deep breath instead, trying to clear his mind.

~ * ~ * ~

John had been on the move since he left the hospital, only remembering the state of his clothes when he walked into the precinct and got double-takes from the guys in the bullpen. Sitting down at his desk, he tugged the bloody sweatshirt off and shoved it into a bottom drawer. Where would Frances have gone when she ran? Somewhere familiar, maybe; somewhere that had once been home. He picked up the phone and flipped through his Rolodex for Baltimore PD's number.

"Hey, Tim, it's John Grant. Listen, I know it's not your unit, but I need a favor..."

~ * ~ * ~

"If anything happens to her and I find out you knew where she was and didn't tell me...." John let the threat trail off, shoving the guy a little more firmly against the concrete abutment.

The guy's hands scrabbled weakly against John's wrists, and he said, "I'm telling you, man, I haven't seen Frannie for over a week, not since you guys raided the flop-house. Swear to God!"

One more shove for good measure, to remind the guy what would happen if John found out he'd been lying. He'd been John's last shot; if he didn't know where Frances had gone, then John was out of leads.

~ * ~ * ~

He'd been up all night, first standing by the nurse's station and then pacing at Bailey's bedside when the duty nurse had made it plain that his presence was interfering with her work. The doctor's words kept echoing in his head—"a lot stronger at this point than we might expect" and "his ventricle might be leaking again" and "this is a risky procedure."

Partly to drown them out and partly because he hoped maybe Bailey could still hear him despite the light sedation they were keeping him under, he said, "She's not in Atlanta. I called a friend at Baltimore homicide, asked him to check some of her hang-outs there. He came up empty."

He paused, paced down to the foot of the bed and back again. The quiet rhythm of the ventilator felt oppressive in the early morning silence. John looked down at his hands; he'd scrubbed them until the last traces of blood were gone, but he still saw them covered in red. He suspected he always would.

Taking a breath, he looked back to Bailey. "I'm going to find Frances and bring her home safe, I promise." Home. He wanted to come home, too, but how could he say that?

How could he not?

"Something I wanted to tell you," he started, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "Leaving the VCTF was the stupidest thing I ever did, and—" His vision blurred, eyes prickling. "—if it's okay with you, I want to come back."

He ignored the footsteps behind him until the nurse said, "Detective Grant? There's a call for Mr. Malone. You wanted it?"

~ * ~ * ~

Watching Frances walk away and knowing there was nothing he could do about it....

John sat in his car for fifteen minutes, his stomach in knots, dreading the thought of going back empty-handed. He'd made a promise to Bailey, but all he could deliver was failure.

~ * ~ * ~

He hadn't been expecting the relief that washed over him at seeing Bailey awake. The ventilator was gone, along with half of the machines Bailey had been hooked up to; all that remained was an oxygen tube and a couple of monitors. John could feel his smile broaden and knew he must look like an idiot, but he didn't care. _With a lot of luck,_ he'd told Frances. It looked like they were all pretty lucky.

~ * ~ * ~

"Water." Bailey's voice was raw and quiet and John's throat ached in sympathy.

It was wrong in so many ways, seeing Bailey—the strongest man he knew—weak and vulnerable and lying in a hospital bed, not even able to do something as simple as get himself a drink of water. John filled the cup and held it out, helping to guide the straw between Bailey's lips. Cool fingers covered his own, and Bailey drank cautiously.

Sam's arrival derailed their conversation, the giant bouquet from Chloe bringing a smile to Bailey's face, but eventually they circled back around to the subject of what had happened. John let Sam tell it; he knew she'd do a better job, anyway.

He didn't know she'd make him out to be a hero.

Denial was on the tip of his tongue when Bailey threw him for a loop. "I shouldn't have let you walk out of the VCTF." Bailey's gaze flicked over to Sam. "I want the team back, Sam." For a second, John couldn't breathe, then Bailey reached out and took his hand, and it was like all the air came rushing back into the room; suddenly he knew that no matter what else happened, this was going to work out.

~ * ~ * ~

He'd thought about not being around when Bailey made his big reappearance in the office, wondered if maybe it would make things less awkward, but in the end that felt like cheating. Settling himself off to the side, he listened to the quiet joking that signaled his colleagues' relief, and tried not to look too nervous when Bailey stepped off the elevator.

Bailey's speech was longer than John would've expected, less gruff and more heartfelt, and he realized he wasn't the only one for whom this had been a life-changing experience. As the gathering broke up, people slowly drifting off toward their own workstations, he watched Bailey squeeze Sam to him and kiss her temple. It was more open affection than he'd ever seen from Bailey and, not begrudging her the moment, he waited until Sam started to step away before approaching.

"I'm back," he said, feeling more than a little tentative. "I put my application in on Tuesday."

Bailey opened his mouth as if to say something, then hesitated.

"He's on probation," Grace interjected as she passed them. "So far, so good. We'll see."

The hand on his bicep slid around and across his back, and Bailey pulled him into an unexpected hug. It was warm and far more comfortable than it had a right to be, and it felt a lot like home.

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken some of the dialogue directly from the episodes this story is woven through; I think it's pretty obvious where, but just in case: It's not my intention to claim these lines as my own.


End file.
